Under Locke Read Online Free PDF Page B

with.
     
    But the minute the dollar signs popped up in my head, I forced myself to say what I needed.
     
    I was surprised by how consistent business was. Most of the customers were scheduled in advance but one had been a walk-in.
     
    A brief conversation with Blake had explained more of the things I'd be responsible for. Shop manager duties mainly consisted of reordering supplies—like inks, gloves, jewelry, etc.—filing expenses, paying utilities. Easy things. Dex handled everything else, any cash deposits at the bank, and settled accounts with the company they used for debit card usage.
     
    He and Blake had been busy, and I’d been busy talking to customers about random stuff while they waited. I was surprised by how nice everyone had b een—w ith the exception of Dex's dumb face.
     
    There hadn't been a single biker in the shop either. Weird. 
     
    All of this assured me that I ’d avoided ha ving to interact much with my boss. The owner. The bleeding mouth sore.
     
    The snot-faced asshole that I only kind-of, sort-of hoped came down with an infectious illness in his private parts. But you know, something he could get medicine for.
     
    I tried my best to keep from replaying the scenario in the office but it was impossible. It wasn't his tone but the words that had seared me.
     
    And each time, it made me want to cry. It didn’t get any easier or any less painful. How the hell could someone be so rude? I didn't understand and I couldn't get over it.
     
    Every cycle had me coming up with different things to call him. A dick. A slimy bastard. A slimy, small-dicked bastard. Right? Maybe he wouldn't be so mad at the world if his pubic hair wasn ’t longer than his full-blown erection . God, I felt awkward thinking about what he had under his clothes but it was the best insult I could come up with.
     
    I didn't normally hold grudges. If something upset me, I'd get over it quickly. Being pissed off took way too much effort and stressed me out, and I had no business stressing if I could avoid it. Plus, there weren ’t that many things in life really worth being mad about.
     
    Until today.
     
    After cleaning up my desk and logging off the computer, I wiped off the coffee table, and put the magazines and binders of photographed tattoos back where they belonged. I swept the floor by the front just in case I was supposed to and started spraying the frames on the wall because I’d seen people touching the glass several times throughout the day. Up close, I saw that each frame held articles, clippings, or mentions of Pins and Needles, or Dex Locke’s work.
     
    Certain phrases caught my eye even when I wasn’t trying to read the writing. The ridiculously large fonts made it impossible for me not to catch the highlighted statements.
     
    “Art was the only class I never skipped in high school.” The caption was directly below a picture of Dex standing in front of the shop with his arms crossed over his chest. Typical.
     
    “It’s an addiction,” another article screamed.
     
    Then there was the one that had me rolling my eyes. “Can’t get arrested for it any more.”
     
    Blah. Blah. Blah.
     
    I was in the middle of cleaning off one of them when I heard, “Ritz.”
     
    I knew it was Dex speaking. His voice was its own unique drawl of deep and rich. All baritone and rasp. On anyone else, I would’ve liked to hear them talk all day but Dex? I’d be perfectly fine not hearing him talk for, oh, let’s say, the rest of my life.
     
    “Ritz.”
     
    Now he wanted to talk? Ha. I sprayed the glass and quickly wiped it down, ignoring him.
     
    “Babe.”
     
    Jerk. I scooted over and sprayed the next frame.
     
    “Babe, I’m talkin’ to you. Quit sprayin’ for a sec,” he said, the quick irritation in his tone hinting at the fact this man wasn't used to repeating himself.
     
    As much as I didn’t want to, I stopped what I was doing and turned to look at him. He was standing just to the side of the